Posts Tagged ‘jesus’

These winter holidays have just been a whirlwind. I feel like I haven’t stopped running since Thanksgiving.

A couple of Tuesdays ago, we closed down the library for the vacation and I came home to pack. On Wednesday, I packed up my landlady next door and drove her to Florida, and her little Toto-looking dog, too. We stayed with a friend of hers, a philosophy teacher with a taste for the occult, so someone who’s a lot like me, only older. The weather was amazing, and the room he put me in had a private bath and a screened porch with large trees for additional privacy. I thought to myself, if I lived here, I might never put clothes on again.

Seeing an older version of myself, I’m rather concerned about my future. I think swearing is fun, and I occasionally have little outbursts at the injustices of the world when I’m among friends, but he had a lot less control over his tongue than I do. An additional forty years of living alone meant that he sort of melted down over any contretemps, and I could see myself easily becoming this if I let myself. It was also frightening to see someone insist on doing things that are unsafe, like driving a car when he’s blind in one eye and has a tendency to doze off at inconvenient times. I was afraid I might die, or at least become so severely injured that I wouldn’t be able to meet the rest of my appointments during the vacation.

On Thursday we went to the Salvador Dali museum in St Petersburg. I thought it was a little pricy, as I always do when going to a museum, but it was a valuable experience. I shunned the guides because I object to being told what to look at, and one of the guides was so loud and obnoxious that I found myself ducking around corners trying to hide from his voice. Another was so quiet that I barely noticed she had a group, which I found much more congenial to the enjoyment of beauty. When I’m focusing on the emotional effect of an experience, I find quiet to be essential.

In some ways, the irritating guide highlighted what feels to be basic, essential differences between myself and mainstream humanity. He kept asking rhetorical questions like, Who else would make the head of a crucifix the bullet hole in Lincoln’s forehead? And I would think, That makes perfect sense to me. While both Lincoln and Christ did good things, they both cemented their martyr status, securing the love of millions, by being killed. They would have little fame without their deaths, so yes, juxtapose their mortal wounds. It feels wholly logical to me, but the guide’s question made me feel like Dali and I are both in some way inhuman, divorced from our own species by having a different perspective. I suppose fragmentation and connections between apparently unlike things come naturally to us both. While others were marveling at the strangeness of Dali’s work, processing the cerebral surrealism, the main impression with which I left the gallery was that he paints such beautiful sadness.

As I came around the corner and saw this one, I thought, What a handsome man.

dali

There was a special exhibit of Dali’s duets with Elsa Schiaparelli, a fashion designer. They did a lot of plays on the phrase “chest of drawers,” combining women’s bodies with furniture. Which explains why some women’s dresses have tiny little pockets on the front that make them look like an old card catalog system. The print dresses they designed were just amazing. I know I don’t discuss women’s clothing often, but when it’s done well it’s clear that clothing is just as much of an art form as painting. And as I’m sitting here thinking of it, the women I spend time with do tend to dress well. [I’m thinking of the ones I know in real life who also read here.] I should probably compliment them more often.

Friday we went to the metaphysical shop where she used to give readings. We’ve been around to some of her old friends in the psychic community here in North Carolina, but it’s the ones in Florida who seemed really excited to see her. In many ways, getting back to Florida is as much a homecoming for her as North Carolina is for me.

She asked one of her friends to do a reading for me, and it was really good. I believe she was trying to be Yenta, putting her two gay male friends in a room alone together, but nothing of that sort happened. Yes, there was some connection, in many ways our energies are a good match, but we are in very different places, both geographically and emotionally, and besides, he’s a psychic. If he had seen a future for us, he would have asked me out.

There were a good many things he said that either confirm what I’ve been feeling or what other people have been saying to me. Professionally: the work I have been doing was good for a while, but now it’s sort of turned to shit and I need to do something else. I already know what, I just need to go ahead and pursue that. I’ve already commented on how little satisfaction I get from teaching and how much more I enjoy working in a library, so I’ll continue to focus my energies there. Personally: if I choose, then of course I can keep living on the edge of nowhere and be single and lonely for the rest of my life. But if I want to meet a presently unattached gay man who will love me, I have to go where the unattached gay men are. He’s known men who would make great husbands, but they end up alone because they’re so busy expressing their domesticity that they never get out of the house. If I don’t want their fate, I need to stop modeling their behavior. One of the things that has been making me hesitate is my need to take care of other people, but it’s time to stop doing that and take care of myself. The other people will do just fine without me. There was some other stuff too, like my oldest son trying to figure out how he and I fit into each other’s lives, but I don’t think that’s uncommon for sixth graders. He’s growing up, and his relationships with his parents are likely to be as confused as his relationship with himself for a while. And there was a skinny dark-haired man surrounded by hills, but I don’t think I’ve met him yet.

In the shop, there was a necklace that called to me, so (not wearing jewelry) I hung it up on the rearview mirror of my car. Ever since, I’ve felt driven to learn about Wicca.

Saturday I drove back home alone. She had other friends to see, but I had an invitation to see my kids for the holiday, which hasn’t happened in my six years of separation and divorce, so I wasn’t about to miss it. The drive was absolutely miserable; I seriously need to rethink driving during the holidays. But on Sunday morning my children were delighted to see me. They really liked the things I made for them, and they were excited about giving me a gift too – my middle son realized this year that I always give them things, but they never give me Christmas presents, so they put their heads together and bought me a concert ticket. It’s for a band that I don’t listen to much since the divorce, but it’ll be a good opportunity to leave the house and get drunk in public.

I spent Christmas day by myself, which is what I really wanted from this holiday. I opened my mother’s gift straightaway, without cleaning the entire house or eating breakfast first (rules from childhood). She got me a pair of lounge pants with cartoon characters on them, in an extra large. I have never been a size extra large. When I called her about that fact, she pointed out that they had a drawstring, so I could make them as tight as I liked, never mind the fact that they’re six inches too long. I did not mention the fact that it has been several years since I’ve worn clothing with cartoon characters; I like dressing like a grown-up. It’s generally agreed in my family that my mother’s mind is starting to go – just starting, but starting nonetheless. Having watched my grandmother fade out with Alzheimer’s, I’m rather apprehensive about my mom’s future. There might be seven of us, but none of us can afford the care my grandmother had.

Tuesday was a day of diminishing resources. I had a check in my hand and an empty checking account, but the banks gave their employees another day off for the holiday, so I couldn’t use the money I had. I had brought some snacks home from the work Christmas party, so I stayed home and ate snack foods and read all day. Not a bad day, but I would have liked to get out a little. Wednesday I deposited my check, returned the lounge pants, and drove back to Florida. The landlady next door was starting to talk about staying longer, so while my ostensible purpose was to pick her up, I really just wanted to go back down there.

I spent Thursday and Friday with my dad. His visit to Illinois was really awkward, so I’ve been sort of avoiding him, but he sounded so pathetic on the phone, talking about missing me, that I gave him some time, and I’m glad I did. The awkwardness had passed away, and it feels like things are back where they were. He is aware of my immorally liberal lifestyle, and I’m aware of his racism and conservatism, but we try not to push those things in each other’s faces. We can bond over watching science fiction, but really, we let his wife pick the movies, so we saw Dr No and some old monster movies. So many of the James Bond movies are perfectly silly, like Moonraker, that it can be hard to remember that the first two were actually quite good. The only Bond I like as much as Sean Connery is Daniel Craig. While this isn’t a fashionable opinion, I also have a soft spot for On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, where George Lazenby makes an entire resort full of girls think he’s gay.

Friday we spent all day working on my car. A few weeks ago, the driver’s seat moved itself all the way forward and wouldn’t move backward, so in all of these journeys my knees had been pressed into the dashboard and I looked like a praying mantis trying to steer. We got the seat disassembled to reach the motors underneath, and Dad attached a battery to the appropriate pieces of electronics to push the seat all the way back. We left the motors disconnected, so now there will be no more unwanted scooting forward. I say we here, but he’s getting a lot better about directing and letting me do the things. My dad is losing his fine motor coordination and his hands shake, so that’s another thing for me to worry about as I grow older.

Saturday I drove back down to the southern part of Florida, to hang out with the landlady and her son. He’s handsome, kind, my own age, and perfectly straight. But we’re becoming very good friends (his girlfriend is really great too), and I’m happy to know him. The mother is a smoker on oxygen for her COPD, but hadn’t been using her oxygen enough on the long car trips, so she had an episode and spent a night in the hospital. People say she’s bouncing back quickly, but a few days later she was only sitting up for an hour or less at a time, so I don’t know whether that’s quickly or not.

The young’uns of us stayed up late, drinking wine and playing board games most of the evenings I was there. One night his roommate brought out something to smoke, and I hadn’t participated in that since I was in Brazil, so I agreed. It’s amazing what I’ll agree to after three or four glasses of sweet red (Jam Jar is my jam). Oddly enough, some of the pattern was repeated – in Brazil, it was the men who would smoke pot, and the women tended to decline, so we’d go off down the street a ways and share a joint about the size of a grain of rice (a little thicker, but not really longer). Here, the son’s girlfriend declined, so we went out to the garage, but this time instead of a tiny little thing there was a pipe, and it was full. So I got rather more of the THC than I did before, and I got really giggly and really ruthless in the board game. I won. I also don’t remember much of that night. The next day, though, I was really sick. Part of it was not being used to smoking, part of it was drinking too much, and part of it was spending most of the week with cats, to which I am allergic.

We got out to do some hiking, though for me that word implies a change of elevation, so maybe it’ll be better to say we walked through the woods some, in a few different locations. I wanted to see some manatees, but the water was too cold. One spot we went to had some kind of Devil Tree, where all sorts of terrible things are rumored to have happened. There are some documented murders in the near vicinity. But when I touched the tree, all I felt was a great sadness, as if the tree had seen some serious shit but was in no way responsible. Farther off the trail behind the tree there are the remains of a few buildings, and those set all of our spider-senses a-tingling. In thinking about the experience, I’ve been wondering about my response. I hear, Hey, there’s this evil thing over here, and I say, Great! Let’s go see it! I feel that there’s something bad in a place, and I run towards it. Past evil draws me like a magnet. I don’t yet understand why, but I aim to find out.

I drove back on Tuesday. It was hard to leave, particularly when I could tell that no one wanted me to, but the traffic had somehow returned to normal levels, so I guess Jan 2 isn’t a bad travel day. I’m taking today, Wednesday, to rest and recover, and then tomorrow I’m back to work. While I was gone, the temperature dropped significantly, so even though my heat’s been on all morning it’s not warm yet. Something in the water line is frozen – we have expandable pipes, so they won’t break, but I won’t have running water until the weather turns. I hope it’s soon.

Until two weeks ago, all of my experience with the state of Florida had been with the northern part, where there are palm trees but the culture is still remarkably similar to the southern parts of Georgia and Alabama, so the energy there is sort of conformist and threatening. But the area where I was over the break was very different. It was very uplifting and life-affirming. I enjoyed my holidays much more than I was expecting to. Here’s hoping for more serendipity in 2018.

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Sometimes I read something and I think, Why? Why did I just read that? How was that necessary to life?

Eliot’s account of Thomas à Becket’s murder is like that. It’s an abstract expressionist play which first casts Becket as a Christ figure, then explains and absolves his murderers. Weird, as a drama by T. S. Eliot absolutely ought to be.

One of the things I appreciate about it is the reminder that people who aspire to become martyrs have the worst type of pride. Kings only want power and love while they’re alive; saints are revered for the rest of time. As long as the Church lives, so do its saints. Even films that have been approved by the Catholic Church make their saints seem horribly unpleasant people, too beatific to have any empathy for or usefulness in daily life. No one likes the sort of people who make them feel inferior.

Becket started as a young libertine who made friends with the future king. He became chancellor when his friend came to power, and the two of them actually ruled pretty well for a while. But when the king made Becket the Archbishop of Canterbury, the new priest dove into his new role feet first. He submitted to the Pope with Catholic grace, and defended the Church against all encroachers, including his former friend the king. Only one thing to do: kill him.

Sudden religion does not seem to benefit people very much. It certainly doesn’t increase the love among their less religious friends. New adherents often get twisted away from their true natures, and become more adamantly twisted than those who were raised in faith. I guess a slow growth of faith doesn’t hurt people too badly, but snap conversion seems harmful. I mean, look at St Paul. He argued with the disciples who had actually known Jesus and spent the rest of his life traveling, preaching his own version of the faith and screwing things around. Some people blame him for all the excesses of Christianity over the last two thousand years.

Becket’s martyrdom was actually sort of effective, if all he had wanted was fame. Two hundred years later, Chaucer was writing about traveling to Canterbury to get a supposedly authentic vial of his blood to ward off illness. Eight hundred years later, Eliot’s writing a drama about it. There was even a film (not of Eliot’s play, of Anouilh’s, but on the same subject). And here I am, 846 years afterward, trying to find meaning in a twelfth-century murder.

I’m not sure if Eliot comes to any conclusions or not. Perhaps it’s that even good people have to be killed sometimes, though as morals go, that one is rather awful. Maybe that’s the point; murder is inherently immoral, even if it’s initiated and condoned by the state. A person can always justify his actions, but that doesn’t always make them right or understandable.

I feel sort of bad, like I should apologize to the author, but I really feel like when he says

Self-conscious and didactic, it was not a successful work.

he’s talking about his own novel. I mean, a few of the critics call it a thriller, but it doesn’t have anything scary in it. There are a few moments of mild excitement, but not even cheap thrills. It is very learned, with an advanced vocabulary and heavy with allusion, but that doesn’t necessarily make it a good read.

How many times have we done the fallen priest novel? I wasn’t that fond of Graham Greene’s, but I haven’t found one better. As is often the case, the priest, who is a Father Whatawaste, falls in love and has sex. The physical contact drives him into questioning everything he’s ever believed, because if you can have sex without being dragged to hell immediately, then obviously God doesn’t exist.

Within he wonders what he has wondered for much of his life but has rarely allowed conscious space to: is there a being, transcendent or immanent – either will do – that one might call God (or Dio, or Allah, or Yahweh, or Bog, if it comes to that) and if there is such a being, does he (He?) care one jot or tittle for the spiritual or physical life of this speck of dust crammed into tourist class on an Alitalia flight to London, Heathrow? He reads his breviary, possibly for the very last time. His question remains unanswered, but his body (embarrassingly: he has to shift in his seat to make things comfortable again) answers all to readily to the persistent vision of Madeleine, which exists in a separate but simultaneous part of his mind and has by now opened its legs.

Leo Newman’s conundrum is complicated by the fact that he’s a researcher; once he and his girl (diplomat’s wife) start doing it, he gets tapped to translate a newly discovered scroll. It’s authenticated to earlier than any preexisting gospel narrative, and claims to be Judas Iscariot’s account of the life of Jesus. So, he didn’t kill himself after the crucifixion. Worse, he says that he, Nicodemus, and Saul of Tarsus stole the body and hid it where no one could find it, but that he, Judas, has seen the decomposing body of Jesus, so the resurrection is a fraud. First the scandal about him and Madeleine hits the papers, and then there’s the to-do about the Judas scroll. Everyone sees him as a betrayer, as worse than Judas himself. And they do have a point; betrayal is sort of this guy’s stock-in-trade.

There’s something oddly Victorian about the whole thing; a priest who has Jewish blood and Jesuit training unravels Christianity, and yet the attempt is made to present him sympathetically? Who wrote this novel, Thackeray? I mean, the author seems to struggle between a conscious acceptance of the inevitability of sexual desire and a prurient rejection of its expression. I don’t think of sex as failure or disease; I rather believe it’s a success.

And that was the moment when something turned inside him, something visceral, like the first symptoms of a disease. That was what made it all the more disturbing, that it seemed so profoundly organic. The cerebral he could deal with. The cerebral he could battle against, had long ago learned to battle against. Mental images were things he could chase from his mind like Christ chasing the money-changers from the Temple (an incident that is generally accepted by the most skeptical of New Testament scholars as genuine, indeed pivotal). But when it was the temple of the body that was under assault, the dismissal was not so easy. No easier to dismiss a cancer. And her glance at him as they sat at the long dining table beneath the benevolent eye of Jack and the agonized eye of Saint Clare Contemplating the Eucharist, School of Guido Reni, seemed to plant the first seeds of some disease in his body.

Twined around this story, we flash forward and backward, into his past and his present. The story of his present, living with an artist named Magda, is sort of dull, even when compared to the uninteresting main story. It provides some foreshadowing, and I believe Leo is eventually sort of happy. In my opinion, the interesting part of the book is the story out of the past.

Leo’s parents were German Nazis stationed in Italy during World War II. His mother has an affair with an Italian Jew, gets angry, and turns him in. I mean, it may not be the most original story in the world, but it was a lot more interesting and affecting than the story of their son’s life of betrayal. I suppose there’s an element of “the sins of the fathers being visited on the heads of the sons,” and parts of the story of Frau Huber and Checco parallel nicely with Leo and Madeleine.

“You are a Jew. What can you know of God?”

“I thought we invented him.”

She chooses her words deliberately, as one chooses a weapon that will do the most damage: “You may have invented God,” she says, “but you also murdered him.”

How can this poor kid help betraying everyone and everything around him? His father was a Christ-killer, and his mother was a Holocaust-denying Jew-killer.

“Tell me what it is like . . .” he asks as they contemplate a Venus standing in the long grass. The Venus gestures with half an arm, like an amputee. Her face, part ravaged by time, still contains within its worn features a strange modesty. Her thighs enclose her glabrous pudendum tightly, so that men may look but not see.

“What what is like?”

“To be a woman.”

She laughs. “How can a woman explain that to a man?”

“Tell me how it feels when you make love.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Or when you have a baby.”

“Painful. You’re being idiotic.”

“I want to understand you.”

“Men cannot understand women.”

“Italian men can. Maybe not German men, but Italian men can.”

“German men are no different from Italian men.”

“They are very different. German men murder children.”

“They do not!” Her voice has risen now. The ghostly, mangled Venus has ceased to matter. She is suddenly angry, her face flushed, her nose, that not-quite-classical nose, sharp and white with a kind of tension. “That is a disgusting thing to say!”

He is grinning at her reaction. “Oh, but they do. Jewish children.”

“Lies! I will not have you saying that kind of thing!” Momentarily, guiltily, she thinks of her husband.

I’d like to say that there’s some interesting stuff about gender, but this is the only passage that moves in that direction. And there are a couple of references to homosexuality, but all of them as something to be avoided in a priest. Back when I was a Mormon, preaching in Brazil, one of my friends said, “If you don’t look once, you’re not a man; if you look twice, you’re not a missionary.” Newman’s fellow priests have the same attitude: it takes a celibate heterosexual man to do God’s work. Anything else is the devil’s work. Mawer recognizes that lifelong celibacy is fucked up, but he represents sex as an inevitable evil, proof of betrayal. Judas and Jezebel, cut from the same cloth, dyed with the same blood. Blood soaks through every symbol and allusion in the book, odd since there’s so little physical violence.

It’s an unfortunate book. I’m sure there are some who like it, and it’s self-consciously literary enough that at one time I may have pretended to, but I’m certainly not one of them.

So. The ex and I had been married for a few years, and still hadn’t seen all of each other’s favorite movies, so I made her watch What Dreams May Come. I love this film – it touches on the love of children for their father, it goes into how to deal with grief and extreme depression in a romantic partner, and it’s visually one of the more beautiful films I’ve seen. Afterward, I asked her what she thought, and she was just like, eh. It’s okay. When I asked her to elaborate, she said, “It’s not real.” Of course it’s not real! It’s not intended to provide a road map of the afterlife. It’s a story about love and responses to grief; death is just a convenient way to isolate a few characters and re-juxtapose them so they don’t recognize each other. Diana Wynne Jones and C. S. Lewis do this by transporting characters into magical fantasy worlds; the filmmakers just used death instead of a magical wardrobe. For me, the fact that the movie isn’t real doesn’t matter.

This question came up in reading Zealot. The book is a biography of Jesus, based on historical research. Being based on documented fact instead of the accounts written by his followers, the depiction of Jesus is rather different than what most people expect. But, like with What Dreams May Come, is it real? And does that matter?

The Fox-News interview focused on his credentials instead of on his book, so let’s review those. Aslan was raised a Muslim in Iran, but his family fled to the United States. Islam became a reminder of the troubles they were escaping, so most of them left off practicing. As a teenager, he became converted to evangelical Christianity; preparing for college, he reverted to Islam. He got a PhD in religion and an MFA in creative writing, attending the illustrious Iowa Writers’ Workshop. This much he tells us himself, in the introductory material. First off, we need to address the IWW. It’s famous for producing some of America’s finest writers in the last few decades. However, I’ve noticed that while they all have different interests and foci in their work, they all tend to sound the same. The IWW style is clear, concise, serviceable. But it’s not florid. I like florid. I like it when an author luxuriates in language simply because he loves words. The IWW writers don’t do this. For them, language is not a paintbrush; it’s a screwdriver. There were no passages of especial beauty for me to transcribe here – Aslan has written the least emotional account of Jesus’ life I’ve ever read, possibly the least emotional account of any person’s life. It draws the reader in, moves quickly, shows off the author’s vocabulary, describes the setting sufficiently to place the reader in the world depicted, all those things that good prose is supposed to do, except make the reader fall in love. Porro unum est necessarium.

What is a Muslim doing writing about Jesus? Well, what is Islam? Submission to God, worship of the single monotheistic God. Therefore, all the prophets, all of ‘God’s people,’ have been Muslims. Islam teaches of four major prophets: Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad. Followers of Abraham, Moses, and Jesus were just as much Muslims as those who follow Muhammad today. The Qur’an tells stories about Jesus; they have just as much a right to him as anyone else. Christians write books about Jeremiah and Isaiah; Muslims can write about Jesus. The point that Aslan focused on, though, is that he has a terminal degree in religion. He teaches religion in a prestigious university. It’s his job to talk about Jesus all day long. He’s not writing a book about faith; it’s a book about a historical person, one that the author has spent years studying. I could write my thesis on Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen without being an Englishwoman; Aslan can write a book about Jesus without being Christian.

But he’s wrong in implying that Islam has nothing to do with his book. Iran tends to be mostly Shia; this is the minority of Muslims that are more prone to violent acts in the name of God. When he describes the Jewish Robin Hoods that were trying to throw off the yoke of the Roman oppressor, waving their swords and shouting “No lord but God,” it sounds an awful lot like Muslim extremists who go into their fight against Israel (or more moderate Muslims) saying the “La illaha.” Aslan never makes this explicit, but his language certainly invites the comparison. He makes Jesus seem like a two-thousand-year-old suicide bomber. Aslan rips apart the Christian idea of Jesus and replaces it with a narrative that fits more closely with Islam’s presentation of him, including the idea that the deification of Jesus began with Paul, who rarely concerned himself with what Jesus actually said.

The first quarter of Aslan’s book describes the historical context, going back about 150 years before Jesus was born and extending a hundred years or so after he died. The focus is on the interaction between Jerusalem and Rome. Judea was a troublous province way off in the sticks; they wouldn’t submit to assimilating nicely like all the other conquered peoples. Jerusalem was the home of the Temple, the symbol of the Jews’ faith and their most important gathering-place. This was where God spoke to the people. The priests tended to live in luxury while the rest of the Jews got poorer and poorer. They blamed their poverty on the wealthy foreigners who moved into their cities (or built their own new cities on Jewish land). There were a number of violent insurgents who tried to drive the foreign elements out of their land and free the Jews; a lot of them were called messiahs. Rome was brutal in putting down the insurgents. They called them bandits and thieves, like the two who talked to Jesus when they were all hanging around on the crosses. The extreme violence makes this a terrible time and place to have lived. This part of the book, I think, would be of great interest and import to those people who want to understand the world Jesus lived in, what he would have considered normal. These are his cultural expectations.

The second quarter, a little longer than the first, tells the story of the life of Jesus. There are very few reliable historical documents that refer to him; Aslan talks about Josephus’s brief mentions of him. Some of this section is derived directly from the source material in the first: Jesus was killed for the same crime as some of these other guys, so let’s see what they did to draw attention to themselves and then assume that Jesus did something similar. Aslan has a troubled relationship with the Bible; some parts he dismisses as fabrications, others he treats as historical fact, and he rarely tells us why he treats the stories so differently. The thing is, like What Dreams May Come, most of the Bible was never intended to be taken as literal historical fact. The different gospels were written with different purposes in mind: to compare Jesus to King David as king of Israel, or to convince people that he was this eternal god incarnated for a brief time, for example. The stories in the gospel aren’t about facts; they’re about truth. If your messiah is an illiterate, probably illegitimate peasant, then you’ll need to argue that he’s descended from the royal line of Israel, whether anyone believes it or not. The point of those genealogies is to tell us who Jesus should remind us of, not to trace a literal family tree.

In chucking out a good bit of the gospels, Aslan is chucking out the Qur’an as well. Muslims also believe in the virgin birth, though Aslan dismisses it as a patent impossibility. He says that either Joseph jumped the fence or Mary was sleeping with a Roman soldier. Yet, he accepts Jesus’ ability to perform miracles. The area was full of faith healers, and no one (in the Roman government or American academia) seems to have opposed them. Why can we accept the idea that Jesus was an actual magician, but not that he was born magically? Aslan seems arbitrary in his choice of what he will accept and what he will not. As another example, Aslan does not challenge the story of the Transfiguration even though there were only four people present for it and none of them wrote the story of it. None of them could have, not being able to read or write. The gospels come from two basic sources, Mark and Q. Mark was written thirty years or so after Jesus died, and I’m not sure about Q. Q has gone missing, but scholars have recreated much of it by using the shared material in Matthew and Luke. And John, well, John’s just different.

The main point is that Jesus defied the authority of Rome and the Temple. The Temple was in Rome’s pocket anyway, since they appointed the high priests. Jesus drove out the Roman influence and said a lot of Jerusalem-for-the-Jews kind of stuff. There was also the Triumphal Entry. Jesus was challenging Rome, so the Romans killed him, just as they had everyone else who had done the same thing. It’s pretty simple.

Much simpler than the task of harmonizing the four gospels. The only other account of Jesus’ life I’ve read is James E Talmage’s Jesus the Christ. His attempts are sometimes contrived, and his story is much drier. Even in the faith tradition Talmage comes from, his book is considered difficult to get through. He puts forth a valiant effort to make the four different stories fit together; often he’s successful, sometimes not so much. Talmage accepts everything in the gospels as gospel, though, unlike Aslan.

The third section is comparatively brief. It covers the time after Jesus’ death. It reads a bit like The Brontë Myth; it’s about the creation of Jesus as a phenomenon, how he is uncoupled from his historical reality and transformed into The Christ. Aslan blames first Stephen, who claimed to see Jesus sitting at the right hand of God (and therefore in a position of equivalent power and authority), right before he was stoned to death for blasphemy. Yeah, it is blasphemous, and Jesus would have seen it that way too. The next, more important culprit is Paul. Originally he went around persecuting the followers of Jesus, but he had a dramatic conversion experience and joined their team. But the problem is that he never really joined them. He took the idea of Jesus to the Greek-influenced foreigners and repackaged him for their consumption. That’s why he stripped away all of that Law-of-Moses stuff: so that his Hellenic audience would buy it. The real followers of Christ in Jerusalem didn’t. They called him back to Jerusalem to try to get him back in line with the rest of them, but he absolutely refused. Paul went on inventing Christian theology with nary a thought as to the actual historical Jesus, whom most people could still remember (if they had ever heard of him before Paul started preaching). Unfortunately in the eyes of some, Paul’s version caught on in Rome (even though Peter got there before him), and when Christianity became the religion of the empire, it was Paul’s version, which he mostly made up himself.

The really important guy was James, Jesus’ brother. Despite what many Christians believe, James was the real leader of the group of Jesus’ followers, not Peter or Paul. He did everything he could to keep the real, historical, political, Jewish Jesus alive in people’s minds and hearts. His version of things wasn’t so popular with the literate, powerful crowd as Paul’s was, so he has faded with time. James was the monotheistic one who didn’t associate anyone else in the worship of God; Paul started all that polytheistic weirdness we call the Trinity.

The last third of the book is documentation and source material, so maybe Aslan isn’t as arbitrary as he seemed to me. But reading through bibliographical references isn’t very interesting, so I skipped that part. Besides, I don’t know enough about the academic study of Jesus’ life to recognize any of his citations.

How should Christians take all this? Well, they survived The Da Vinci Code, they can survive this. They already believe in a lot of things that defy logic, so I don’t see how a logical argument like this one can pose any sort of threat at all. It’s so polarized that it will only convince those who are already inclined to agree with it. It’s easy to dismiss if you’re thoroughly convinced in the literal interpretation of the Bible. I found Aslan’s book convincing, despite the occasional inconsistencies, but I was raised in a church where the most influential leader of the nineteenth century said that the story of creation in Genesis is more of a bedtime story than anything to do with either history or science.

Which leads me back to What Dreams May Come. So, I’ve determined that the stories in the Bible aren’t factual. But does that matter? Like the film, they were never intended as such. There are still a lot of good ethical ideas in Christian writings, still a lot of beauty in Christian poetry, still some comfort to be had in Christian ritual. But I can admit that without having to adopt their version of a suicidal, bloodthirsty, vengeful, jealous, possibly plural god. I don’t have to reject everything in Christianity, but I don’t have to accept it all either. I just need to remember that in my ongoing search for spiritual guidance, I can’t rely on those who interpret the bible literally. It all has to be taken with a grain of salt.

I don’t really understand J. D. Salinger’s intense popularity. I first read The Catcher in the Rye in my late 20s, and I was really disgusted by it. Holden Caulfield has more money than problems, and that itself is becoming a problem in his teenage life. He lands himself in a mental institution, apparently so that he can finally suffer authentically. I spent my teenage life suffering in poverty and isolation, so it’s really hard for me to relate. However, I have friends who really get behind Franny and Zooey, so I gave it a try. It’s much easier for me to get into – much less whining and more of a struggle that I understand.

Franny and Zooey is basically a story of three conversations. Since the book is two hundred pages long, the conversations are a bit lengthy. This is not the sort of book to read if you’re into action; more My Dinner with Andre and less Andre the Giant. The main issue is that Franny is trying to ‘pray without ceasing,’ as the Bible recommends. But it’s really stressing her out and not really enlightening her.

The book begins with Franny meeting her boyfriend Lane for lunch. They’re a couple of college kids (attending different schools; this is the 1950s) who are having lunch before a football game. Franny feels kind of sick, which pisses Lane off. Franny’s preparing to drop out because everything is so fake. There’s the established conformity, and there’s the equally established bohemian alternative conformity, and no one is really himself, not even the professors. She’s looking for some kind of authentic experience, so she looks to religion. Religious writers have been saying for centuries that repeated chants can induce a trance state that fosters mystical experiences, and that’s what she’s doing. She found a book in the library about a peasant that wanders around Europe saying The Jesus Prayer (Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a miserable sinner), so that’s her mantra. Franny’s spiritual search is played off of Lane’s materialism: he focuses his attention on objects, what coat is she wearing, what does she order for lunch, that sort of thing, and he reflects with satisfaction on the fact of being seen in the right restaurant with the right sort of girl. Too bad Franny’s behavior is becoming erratic; she’s not the right sort of girl after all. She just looks like it. A sample of their conversation:

“I don’t know what a real poet is. I wish you’d stop it, Lane. I’m serious. I’m feeling very peculiar and funny, and I can’t – ”

“All right, all right – O.K. Relax,” Lane said. “I was only trying – ”

“I know this much, is all,” Franny said. “If you’re a poet, you do something beautiful. I mean you’re supposed to leave something beautiful after you get off the page and everything. The ones you’re talking about don’t leave a single, solitary thing beautiful. All that maybe the slightly better ones do is sort of get inside your head and leave something there, but just because they do, just because they know how to leave something, it doesn’t have to be a poem, for heaven’s sake. It may just be some kind of terribly fascinating, syntaxy droppings – excuse the expression. Like Manlius and Esposito and all those poor men.”

Lane took time to light a cigarette for himself before he said anything. Then: “I thought you liked Manlius. As a matter of fact, about a month ago, if I remember correctly, you said he was darling, and that you – ”

“I do like him. I’m sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect. . . . Would you excuse me for just a minute?” Franny was suddenly on her feet, with her handbag in her hand. She was very pale.

I like Franny’s ideas of poetry, particularly of mid-twentieth-century poets. I wish more artists were interested in making the world a beautiful place, instead of merely reflecting the fuckeduppedness they see around them. The world is beautiful, and there are lovely things in it, and I’d like to contribute to that. I want the world to be more beautiful for my having been in it, not angrier.

The second conversation takes place a few days later, in the bathroom. Zooey is reading a letter he received years ago from his brother Buddy while sitting in the tub. Buddy steps forward for a few minutes to identify himself as the narrator and to explain a bit about the family – five brothers, two sisters, just like mine, two dead, not at all like mine. Salinger writes about this family in several other stories; Seymour seems the most important, he being the oldest, and the rest of his family’s stories seem to revolve around him, or the lack of him. He commits suicide in 1948. Seymour and Buddy are only two years apart, and they seem to have been inseparable. Buddy’s narrating the stories might be why Seymour seems so paramount. Seymour and Buddy were in college when Zooey and Franny were young, and they taught their youngest siblings all about Eastern philosophy when they were young children. Franny and Zooey have often felt like freaks ever since, but when Franny has her religious crisis, Seymour’s the one she wants.

I feel more than one pang of envy when I read about the Glass family. Yeah, we have the same complement of boys and girls, but my family is closer in age and further in character. The scene where Zooey goes into Seymour and Buddy’s room hits me the hardest – the two oldest Glass kids had all the same reading interests, so while their room is odd, it’s clear that it is the result of two minds that work in unison. I don’t have that in my family. The brother closest to me in age told me he’d rather have me dead than gay, so he pretends that I am. At almost exactly fifteen months, he and I are the chronologically closest in our family, but we’re pretty far removed in terms of priorities and values. The next older is almost three years older than me. When he flunked out of college and came home in disgrace, we discovered that we had a lot in common. Upon reflection, I think a lot of it was isolation and the need to connect. A few years later he came to the same university I was attending, and over the next three years it became clear that we weren’t quite as similar as we had thought. Eventually I felt like I was valued so long as I was his Mini-Me; when I asserted myself, we tended to drift apart. In general, my family tends to think of me as a useless sort of blank slate. The ex really helped for a while; she presented me to my family in a way that they could understand and like; my solitary visits post-divorce have reminded me that I really do need an interpreter between me and my own family.

Anyway, this second conversation is between Zooey and his mother. She’s concerned about his television career (both parents are old vaudevillians), and she wants him to talk to Franny about whatever’s going on with her. Like Lane, Zooey seems to swear with unnecessary force at strange times in the conversation. Also, they favor the religious swear words, the ones I never use. I will say shit or fuck with somewhat reckless abandon, particularly when upset, but I never use goddamn, and seldom damn or hell. I also do not swear in my mother’s presence, so Zooey swearing at his mother puts me off. I can understand his desire to get her out of the bathroom while he’s in the tub, but the rudeness he uses to accomplish that (which fails, by the way – this conversation is about twice as long as the previous) makes me feel uncomfortable. There’s another treasure trove for the thing theorists when she opens the medicine cabinet – so much useless stuff crammed into a little space.

The third conversation, the one you’ve all been waiting for, is between the two titular characters. Zooey tries to talk Franny into a better frame of mind, and by ‘better’ we mean ‘more similar to his.’ I think that taking on her discontent with academia is a good start, probably because I get frustrated with it too. I think that my frustration may come from my perceived rejection from it – I applied to doctoral programs for years, and never got accepted. In the end, I gave up, because they’re not interested in giving people time and space to develop ideas. They’re interested in finding people who are going to contribute to The Profession and training them to do it properly. Not much caring for The Profession, I don’t get accepted to their programs.

Way back in the early Aughts, I saw a sign up for a demonstration against the impending invasion of Iraq. I (still) think it is/was a bad idea, so I went to the protest. I was fine and happy as long as we were protesting against war, but the person with the megaphone then started making personal attacks on the president and going on about environmental policy. I was never a big fan of Bush Jr, and I’m a big fan of conserving and protecting the environment, but I wasn’t there for that. If we’re here to protest the war, let’s focus on the war instead of mixing the war into a mass of other issues that just foster Bush-bashing. Keep a clarity of purpose. Zooey accuses Franny of making the same mistake.

If you’re going to go to war against the System, just do your shooting like a nice, intelligent girl – because the enemy’s there, and not because you don’t like his hairdo or his goddam necktie.

Haircuts and fashion sense don’t make someone a good teacher. Yet, when students dislike a teacher, they seldom think through precisely what they disagree with. Instead, they’ll launch into this sort of personal attack, as if style were the essential thing. I remember one of my favorite teachers in high school was once criticized for wearing a brown belt with black shoes. To his face.

I think it’s much more important that a teacher feel a vocation to teach. I think that’s what Zooey is trying to get at in this section on ego.

Take your Professor Tupper. From what you say about him, anyway, I’d lay almost any odds that this thing he’s using, the thing you think is his ego, isn’t his ego at all but some other, much dirtier, much less basic faculty. My God, you’ve been around schools long enough to know the score. Scratch an incompetent schoolteacher – or, for that matter, college professor – and half the time you find a displaced first-rate automobile mechanic or a goddam stonemason. Take LeSage, for instance – my friend, my employer, my Rose of Madison Avenue. You think it was his ego that got him into television? Like hell it was! He has no ego any more – if ever he had one. He’s split it up into hobbies. He has at least three hobbies that I know of – and they all have to do with a big, ten-thousand-dollar workroom in his basement, full of power tools and vises and God knows what else. Nobody who’s really using his ego, his real ego, has any time for any goddam hobbies.

When I was in school, I liked just about everything, and was good at the academic subjects. It’s great for being a student, but terrible when you have to specialize. I don’t think there’s any one profession that could consume my entire life like Zooey expects it to. Besides, as much as I like handcrafts, I don’t think I could support myself and my kids with my knitting.

I notice that the passages I’m pulling out are decidedly Zooey-heavy. The story is like that, but I’m a little too close to Franny’s mental state to derive much benefit from her. I’m kind of in the market for a spiritual guide, but I keep rejecting the ones that are available. I’m afraid that I’m going to find something that works for others in my independent reading, try it for myself for a while, then go to pieces when it doesn’t work for me. And,

When you first felt the urge, the call, to say the prayer, you didn’t immediately start searching the four corners of the world for a master. You came home.

I’d like to go home. We can only handle a finite number of stressors at one time; going to a familiar place reduces the stress from the environment. This is an important strategy when internal stress runs high. Mine is becoming problematic, and I’d like to go home now.

Franny and Zooey is a good book. Franny has a major religious crisis, but it remains unresolved, potentially unresolvable (how very 1950s-bohemian). Personally, I’m looking for a little resolution right now, so I may need to file this with Demian as good, but not what I need at the moment. Maybe if I read some of the other Glass family stories; they seem like interesting people, and I’d like to see more of them.